Crane
by m.michele
Summary: Follows a day in the life of Dr. Jonathan Crane, head psychologist of Arkham Asylum. Early Batman Begins. One day, multi-chapter.
1. Morning

I don't own anything here. Nolanverse, Batman Begins. This is basically a warm up, because I haven't really written anything in a few years. I'm falling back into the Scarecrow/Dr. Crane fandom, and I guess this is me, contributing to that in a way I didn't when I was first active. Mad props to wouldyouliketoseemymask for her great fics, and inspiring me to go down this path. Review if you want, like I said, this is pretty much a great big refresher on how to be a fanfiction writer for me, and I'd be glad to hear your thoughts.

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The alarm clock went off at six-thirty a.m., sharp. A heavy, dry hand depressed the button. The man in the bed stood up. Average height, on the slim side; brown hair pressed close to his skull on one side from sleep.

The man ruffled his hair to get it out of his eyes, which were a startling blue. A quick shower and shave before he walked back to his stark bedroom, where he took his time getting dressed. A white collared shirt, a brown sweater-vest, and a dark blue suit with the faintest of pinstripes. The suit looked neither new nor old, just worn.

From the bedroom, he moved to the kitchen area of the penthouse. Most of the rooms were filled with dark wood furniture and plush leather chairs, filling the whole place with a sort of collegiate air, like a common room or professor's lounge. However the kitchen was mostly empty. There was a metal table with two chairs, half full cabinets and a fridge mostly filled with test tubes and curiously labeled containers. He reached behind these containers for a carton of milk. Cold cereal for breakfast, and a hot cup of coffee. He perused yesterday's newspaper almost absentmindedly before placing the empty bowl and mug in the sink to clean later.

Before he left his apartment, he slid on silver-framed glasses and did a quick check of his person: wallet, keys, phone, briefcase. And a few capsules in his pocket filled with some sort of powder.

The man walked precisely seven minutes to the nearest monorail station, where he boarded the train. The rail to the Narrows, where Arkham Asylum is located, arrived on time at 7:45 a.m., and he at the asylum a few minutes before 8:00.

Upon entering the asylum, he checked in at the front desk, where he retrieved his identification badge. "Dr. Jonathan Crane, Head Psychiatrist". Dr. Crane walked through the hospital-like lobby and down several white tiled hallways. Soon he was in the staff wing, which looked a bit more hospitable. The floors here were swept, and bulletin boards with paper cutouts of flowers and flyers advertising bake sales hung every few hundred feet. At the end of the hall, Dr. Crane opened a wooden door with his name on it, disappearing inside.

He opened his filing cabinet and thumbed through several folders until he found the one he was looking for. Simms...Sproles...Squires, Sherry. He pulled out the folder and set it on his desk. Inside, however, was not a file on any patient, current or former. Although the name was one familiar to him, the contents of the folder contained his most secret research.

Dr. Crane had been working on perfecting a fear toxin for some time now. His interest in fear, always active, had become even more so since leaving his previous job at Gotham University and becoming a psychiatrist at Arkham. He had chosen to hide his progress under the name of the first casualty of his experiments in fear, many years ago.

Nearly a month ago, he was approached by a representative of an organization called The League of Shadows, a well dressed man named Ducard. The League had heard of the young man's brilliant mind ("Of course," Crane thought) and his research, and was interested in helping.

"What research?" he responded, straight faced. "I am no longer tenured at Gotham University, as you can see, and the care and keeping of the mentally unstable hardly provides the correct atmosphere for producing more academic work." He cocked his head slightly to the side, lips pressed tightly together.

"That's not what we've heard," Ducard purred. "We were under the impression that your interests tended towards the more...macabre. That you look to turn fear on those who would cause it. That you would do this through scientific research, a compound. We believe we may be able to provide you with an ingredient to help you accomplish such a task." Ducard raised an eyebrow, his eyes smiling. He knew already that he had Crane's attention.

And so The League of Shadows, through Ducard, employed Dr. Crane. They provided him with a rare blue flower from Bhutan, where they were headquartered. The powdered concentrate of the flower was a truly powerful hallucinogen, one that he was glad to get his hands on. Almost greedily, he found ways to keep much of it for himself, stored safely in several locations lest he ever be discovered, so that he would always have more if he needed it.

Following instructions by The League, he diluted the powder, and had begun to dump it into the Gotham water lines, via pipes deep under the asylum. He had enlisted the help of patients, testing the various stages of the compound on them, and sneaking some of the more damaged cases into the basement area where they were put to work cracking the pipes and dumping barrels of the compound (which they also helped to mass-produce) into the water main.

All he had to do was put on his mask. It kept the bad air out, and the inmates frightened.

His mask was made of burlap sack, coated inside with a flexible latex and outfitted with a breathing apparatus to protect him from the inevitable when one works with air-based compounds. It was hand stitched, with holes ripped to make the eyes and a jagged mouth. He had based it on a scarecrow that used to hang in a cornfield near his grandparents' house as a child, except it had been warped in his mind through the years into a monstrous visage.

It also proved useful in controlling his underlings. Under the influence of his hallucinogenic substance, they were made to see their worst fears coming to life, and the appearance of the masked creature would often times be enough to cause a panic among the affected inmates. He even used his gas and mask on unruly patients, ones who were threatening to become a handful, or seemed defiant.

"Would you like to see my mask?" was all he would have to ask.

Today, he had quite a full schedule on his plate. He had an appointment with a candidate for admission to the asylum, where he would meet with the applicant and their family, and would perform a few rudimentary tests to determine if the asylum was, indeed, where he or she belonged.

Then he had lunch with Carmine Falcone, Gotham City's premier crime boss, and his partner in bringing in the shipments of the powdered flower. As far as Carmine knew, they were just drugs that he was importing along with cocaine from somewhere overseas. Crane preferred that it stayed that way.

Later in the afternoon, he planned on sitting in his office for a few hours, pretending to work on paperwork (that he was actually just going to pass on to his secretary, Mina, later) while instead dwelling on his own genius.

Finally, before heading home for the evening, he was going to go down into the bowels of the asylum and check on the progress of the inmates who were stationed down there. Normally that was something he would do late at night, but he preferred to be at home on the evenings that shipments were coming in.

He imagined it now: lighting a fire in the fireplace, popping open a bottle of champagne, and working on his notes. One day, when his genius was fully recognized, he intended to have his work on fear and experiments with the fear toxin published.

It was not that Crane thought that deep down he was some misunderstood scholar, and that his work was really for a good cause; he was fully aware that his intentions were not noble. But in the future, if he had his way, they would be too afraid of him to refuse his work. It would be his manifesto: My Life, My Work: FEAR by Dr. Jonathan Crane. Something like that.

But for now there was work to do. Toxin to mix, laws to navigate around. And there had been talk lately of some sort of vigilante; a man in a mask, outfitted in bat wings who had it out for the criminal element in Gotham. Crane had already dismissed him as a non-threat, although he certainly wished he could perform experiments on this masked man. What would drive a man to putting on a costume like that? Surely he had something to hide. What was he afraid of? Crane smirked to himself at the delicious thought.

Not now. Later.


	2. Consultation

Again, I don't own anything! Just getting my sea-legs (so to speak) back for fanfiction writing. Thanks to guest user Zeny and wouldyouliketoseemymask for their kind words on the first chapter. I initally wasn't sure if it WAS gonna be a first chapter or just a standalone thing, and yet here I am. And here we go.

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A knock on the door. Before Dr. Crane could reply, the door opened a crack and his secretary, Mina, poked her head in.

Crane was not particularly fond of Mina. She was a very pretty girl; blonde and bubbly. He had her pegged from day one. An attractive girl who knew she was attractive, but liked to pretend she didn't to get compliments. For someone who claimed to be so "average" and "boring", she very well knew how to get what she wanted from men. Some of the male staff would go out of their way to do favors for her, and even some of the physicians would drop by her desk from time to time to have a friendly chat. She would bat her eyelashes and flash them her most winning smile, and they were butter.

Crane knew that Mina had a thing for him. She had very actively tried to pursue him for a while after being assigned to him. Crane wasn't blind; she was a beautiful enough girl, and if he desired her, he knew he could have her at any time. But he found it was much more fun to give her the cold shoulder. Every time he made a snide comment about the way she dressed, or critiqued her handling of his schedule, she would take note, make a change and always bounce back. Her resilience was astounding to him. One day, she would make a prime test subject, he was sure.

"Dr. Crane? Your consultation appointment is here. A Mr. Arnold Wesker."

A man entering his middle ages stepped in. With a ventriloquist dummy.

Wesker was tall, but appeared to be stooped. His grey suit was dirty at the elbows, and his blue bow tie seemed to have stains. The dummy, however, was impeccably dressed. In a sharp black suit and tie, his "hair" was slicked back tight, and a cigar dangled from his mouth.

"Mr. Wesker," said Crane, standing from behind his desk, extending a hand to the man. Wesker extended the hand with the dummy on it. With only the slightest of hesitation, Crane took the dummy by its stiff, wooden hand, gave it a shake, and then sat down.

He lowered himself into his chair, scooting his chair up close to his desk, and positioned himself with pen and paper at the ready.

"My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, and I am the head psychiatrist here at Arkham Asylum. I understand you are considering checking yourself in here for treatment?"

A voice seemed to come from the dummy. "Asylum? Youse didn't tell me we was going to any Asylum, Wesker. You tryin' to get rid of me? Eh?"

Wesker spoke quietly, with a tremor in his voice. "N-no, of course not, I have just-ju-just been feeling a bit strained lately and I w-was thinking a bit of rest and relaxation might do us both good."

"Do us goth good, eh?" said the dummy. Crane noted that the dummy – or Wesker AS the dummy – had a speech impediment, switching his 'b's with 'g's. "Well, for your sake, dat getter ge it."

"Mr. Wesker, I didn't know you would be bringing a guest. Would you mind introducing me to your friend?"

"O-o-of course. This is-"

"I'm the gig man around here. I'm Scarface, and don't you fuggedhit!"

After a very tedious 45 minute session with Wesker, Crane was left with a bad taste in his mouth and an application form on which he had written and underlined "Dissociative Identity Disorder" multiple times. He had agreed to admit Wesker into the hospital beginning the following week, where he would be staying in a "guest room" (what they formally called the higher-end cells) and receiving various stress thearapy treatments.

Crane was unsure whether or not he would eventually use Wesker as a subject for his personal experiments; quite frankly, he was unimpressed with the man's madness. He had a weak mind, clearly, and Crane was not interested in minds that could be broken as easily as this man's had been. Far better was it to take a healthy whole and divide it, and then divide it again until left in the smallest possible parts. He was far more curious about Wesker's Scarface persona, and would like to try and isolate just that personality for experiments. Then again, to test his fear toxins on a weaker mind would still provide data for him to chronicle and save, and set precedents for future scenarios. He would decide after another session with Wesker, when he could better judge how the personalities would react to such attention.

Straightening up his desk, Crane checked his watch, and then grabbed his briefcase. It was nearly time for his lunch appointment, and he hated not being on time.

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Woop this one was a lot shorter, and surprise Ventriloquist, ok cool. I hope everyone reading this is enjoying it!


	3. Car Ride

Hello again! Thanks again to Zeny, who seems to be on the same wavelength with me on this story; a suggestion she had made was actually on the agenda for this chapter, so there you have it! I'm a bit hesitant to introduce some of the ideas I have here; I feel like this is a risky chapter for me. I hope it goes over well with you guys!

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Dr. Crane walked briskly out the door and down the front steps of Arkham Asylum. As he took the steps, it almost turned into a skip, if Dr. Jonathan Crane was the kind of man who skipped. Which he was not.

The walkway between the asylum and the street was peppered with trees and small gardens, the pride of the groundskeeper and his crew. They seemed to make it their personal mission to add a little beauty to the grounds, to counteract the intimidating Gothic architecture of the building. It was all lost on Jonathan, though, as he strode towards the front gate.

Passing through security, and eventually the massive spiked gate itself, Crane stood on the sidewalk and pulled out his cell phone. He was about to call a cab, but was saved the trouble when a black, very expensive looking, very obviously mob-connected car pulled up to the curb.

The window rolled down, and the man behind it asked: "Dr. Crane?"

"Yes," Jonathan replied, already half reaching for the handle to the backseat door.

"Get in."

The interior of the car was plush, with leather seats a partial mini-bar, and a privacy screen between the goons in the front seat and whomever was in the back. Crane rolled up the privacy window and stretched out across the back seat.

The trip to Port Adams, where he was going to be meeting with Carmine Falcone for lunch, could take anywhere between 15-30 minutes, depending on traffic. Crane decided that he might as well get comfortable.

He propped his head on the curve of the door next to the window, and his feet on the hand rest of the opposite door. He was beginning to feel a deep headache coming, which he dreaded. It felt as if something in his brain was trying to gnaw its way out through his left temple. He decided to close his eyes and see if he could will it away.

Introspection. Everything can be understood if one looks inside oneself deep enough. There one finds what one truly wants, and conversely, what one truly fears.

Crane remembered the days before his fear toxin, when getting to the bottom of a patient's phobia was more of a challenge. He couldn't just shoot a gas and bring down the hapless victim. No, then he had to work in an almost detective-like fashion to get to the bottom of it.

You have dreams where you are out on a boat, on an empty foggy lake, alone? Let's talk about that. You say you don't like commitment: let's look at your relationship past. I think you'll find that you secretly fear being betrayed. You fear being alone. Fear. Alone. And there it was.

_Don't be so ungrateful. Sure, you love a challenge. But now you're freed up to take on bigger things. The city will bow to you, Crane. Bow to us. Bow to Scarecrow. _

Crane smiled. Ah, yes. Now he was feeling it. Amazing, the confidence one gains with power. The power to conquer fear, and gift it to those, so unworthy. Yes, with his mask, he would show his brilliance to the world. He would become Scarecrow, and help them all realize their worst fears.

I will bring Gotham to its knees.

_Gotham will weep._

The streets will run with rats.

_The sky will cloud over. The sun will cease to shine._

Crows will perch on every ledge.

_Think of the riches._

Yes, I'll take what I want. Money, for starters. I'll be able to expand my research exponentially, with the right resources. And then I'll take

_More subjects._

Yes, and then-

"COME ON! Watch where you're going!" The car jolted to a stop, and through the privacy screen, Crane heard what must have been the driver yelling and honking the horn. Traffic.

_Traffic will stop when I, Scarecrow, am king of this city._

Yes, when Gotham is mine.

Crane's adrenaline was running high now, and the sharp pain in his head had dulled to a nearly imperceptible throb. He felt vaguely uncomfortable and restless, and began to finger the small powder filled capsules he had placed in his pocket that morning.

The thought of his city, his future conquests, excited him in almost the same way that the opposite sex had during his awkward teenage years. The need to act on his impulses was nearly overwhelming.

He could just...just detour them for a bit. One capsule could take out both the driver and his assistant, leave them both screaming at their deepest fears. He could imagine the sound of it, the smell of sweat and fear through his mask. He would just have to find some way to get them to pull over...

He peered out the window to see where they were. Only a few blocks away from Port Adams, and already close enough to see the sign for the bar where he was to meet with Falcone.

The car started to roll forwards again, and Crane rolled down the privacy window, placing his head close to the gap between him and his two companions.

"Excuse me, do you mind if we pull over here for just a second? I'm feeling something in my neck-" he moved his head from side to side, grimacing with pain at every crack and crinkle it made "-from the wreck you nearly got us into and frankly, I think it might be something a little more serious than whiplash." He scowled again, kneading at the place where his neck met with his shoulders.

The two men looked at each other. They were nearly there, why couldn't the guy just wait til he got to the restaurant? They knew they'd be in serious trouble if they were late. Then again, they would probably be in serious trouble if they were delivering this guy as damaged goods, and he was some kind of doctor, right? So if he said something was wrong, there probably was – or he knew how to fake it well enough to give Falcone trouble. Plus, they were making good time. Better safe than sorry; might as well stop and let him work out the kinks. Besides, the two could use a smoke break.

They pulled over at the next corner, into an alley between two unused buildings. One was an old warehouse, the other simply an empty studio. The two cronies in the front got out of the car, and stood idly nearby, opening their cartons of cigarettes and passing a lighter between the two of them. They puffed and wooshed out the smoke, making little clouds of poison. A little more couldn't hurt.

Crane opened his door and sat sideways on the seat, facing out towards the alley. He took off his glasses, and cradled his head in his hands. His heart was beating furiously, and he couldn't stop smiling. It was so brazen, in the middle of the day, out on the streets. He had to keep reminding himself to rub at his neck, to turn his smile into a grimace, lest they suspect anything. Head still down, he slowly unlocked his briefcase and grabbed his mask, pulling it into his lap. When they had their backs turned, shooting the breeze with each other, he struck.

His mask on, Crane stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out one of the capsules there. He snapped his fingers, crushing and breaking the little plastic pill, releasing the toxin inside. The cloud created by his fear gas mingled with the cigarette smoke, slowly reaching the two men with every inhalation and drag of the cancer sticks they sucked on.

There was the sound of a door slamming, and Falcone's henchmen turned around. A well dressed man in a suit was walking towards him, but the man had no face. No...as he got closer, they could see that he had a face...the most terrible face...

Inside his mask, Crane laughed aloud while the two men grabbed at each other, scrambling to get away from him, but they were only running themselves further into the alley. A dead end.

"Gentlemen, smoking is a filthy habit." Crane's voice sounded gravelly and distorted to the two men, who were now stumbling over garbage cans and assorted alley junk. "Let me guess: mommy and daddy were smokers, right? And that older boy next door, the one who tormented you during school but hung around with you afterwards, was also a smoker? And one day you took a cigarette because you thought it would make you cool. And now look at you: success stories, both of you! Little more than underlings, working for the mob. Wouldn't your parents be proud?"

He leaned down to the ground and picked up the lighter they had dropped, pocketing it for himself. A trophy.

"You know what that stuff does to you? It rots you. You will fall apart from the inside, out. Your lungs will blacken, your vocal cords will fail. Your skin will turn yellow and melt off of your flesh. Your eyes will cloud, your teeth and fingernails will all fall out. Your body will fail you, and slowly decompose." Every word he said was delivered quietly, and dripping with suggestion. Each symptom he described, each man saw, and felt. They watched their skin crinkle and fold, flake off and rot. Felt their teeth loosen fall. Deadened fingertips grasped out, until their vision clouded out, and they could no longer see anything. They were left to their own darkness, blindly feeling themselves decompose.

"All in the name of acceptance of your peers? Not worth it in my opinion. I have no peers; I need no peers. I am the master of fear. I am Scarecrow."

His breath had condensed on the latex insides of the mask, and the air he was breathing had become humid. A faint sheen of sweat was on his forehead. Walking back to the car, he pulled his mask off and ran his hands through his damp hair, pushing it off his face. Once back at the car, he sat heavily onto the leather seats and chuckled to himself. He still had a few minutes left. Reaching into the mini-bar, he allowed himself a small shot of vodka, which he downed quickly. The alcohol spread through his mouth and cleared his sinuses. He crinkled his nose a little, and exhaled loudly.

After a quiet moment, he put his mask back into his briefcase and slid his glasses onto his face, still looking a bit disheveled. Then, with no one the wiser, the psychiatrist walked the last few blocks to his appointment, arriving right on time.

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Thank you for reading so far! Reviews and suggestions always appreciated.


	4. Meeting

This one's taken me a few days to pound out, but here it is! I would like to say thank you to everyone who gave me critiques and reviews, including Zeny, can'tthinkofasuitableusername, thelyonspenance, nessusmallum, and probably other people I'm forgetting. I hope you'll stick with this story, and continue to give me feedback!

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Crane walked up to the sleazy bar where he had agreed to meet with Falcone. It was well known that the whole area was practically owned by the mobster, so most cops kept well away. As long as their pockets were lined, they were content to let any misdemeanors that might occur slide.

Jonathan wasn't a big fan of the place. Bodyguards and neon lights flickering in the windows welcomed him. The exterior had overflowing garbage cans and litter all around it. Everything looked germ-ridden and disgusting. He was no Mysophobe, but it never hurt to be cautious. Every time he came for a meeting, he was careful to touch nothing unless he absolutely had to.

In comparison to the outside, inside the décor was relatively high-brow. Relatively. Wood-paneled walls, creative lighting, a fireplace. The whole back wall was made of glass, where you could see a desk and several bookshelves in the room beyond it. Falcone's office. Despite all this, however, there was no disguising the fact that this was just a bar, pretensions aside. His shoes stuck to the tile floor, coated with spilled alcohol.

This time of day, there weren't many people just knocking back drinks, and there were no civilians out looking for a good time. These were all either dock workers, or Falcone's men. In some cases, both.

Had they known what he was capable of, what he had just done to two of their own, he would probably be looking down the barrels of half a dozen guns. The idea was almost enough to give him goosebumps.

Luckily for him, the two men he'd left in the alley would be unable to share their story. Eventually, they would exhaust themselves and pass out, to wake up with their memories of the events of the car ride nothing but a blur. The drug had somewhat amnesiac aftereffects, thanks to some of Dr. Crane's modifications.

If they knew what was good for them, they'd just shrug it off. Perhaps they'd knocked their heads on the dashboard in their near-collision, and lost bits of their memory. Perhaps.

As Crane crossed the black and white checked tile floor towards a booth in the back of the restaurant, he struggled to reel himself back in. It was best to talk to Falcone with complete focus. After all, the man was The Roman. But while he no longer felt the physical need to unleash fear upon those around him, it was difficult to suppress Scarecrow's reactions to their surroundings.

_Ah. There he is. Looking as inflated as his misguided sense of self-worth. _

Before he could sit at the table, one of Falcone's muscle men patted him down and checked him for any weapons. Crane couldn't stop himself from exhaling loudly and rolling his eyes.

At the sound, Falcone looked up at him, mid bite of something that looked fried and greasy. The older man was dressed in a grey suit, with a napkin tucked in around his neck. He looked quite unaffected by the younger man in any capacity, looking at him with as much interest as he would an impatient teenager.

He was, after all, untouchable. He didn't care about Jonathan's position of power. He had men of power on a leash, feeding them scraps under the table. He wasn't intimidated by the man's education, youth, or good looks. Falcone had the power of fear on his side.

But so did Dr. Crane.

Finally seated, Jonathan sat across from the man, watching him shovel food down, fork by forkful.

"Dr. Crane. Can I offer you anything? On me."

Crane declined, save for a glass of water, which he barely touched, although he was thirsty. The sheen of sweat on his forehead had begun to cool in the air conditioned building, and his heart rate was slowing. The water quenched him, and his more excitable self began to retreat with less effort than he would have thought.

He waited for the man to finish. They made no conversation. Falcone and Crane had little in common to talk about that could be discussed outside of the back office. A newspaper was laying on the table, so Crane picked it up and began to leaf through the pages.

The biggest headline, right on the front page, read "The Prince of Gotham, Billionaire Bruce Wayne, Makes His Return From The Dead."

"Wonder where he's been all this time, eh?" Falcone said aloud. "Probably jet setting around, spending what his father left behind bit by bit. But who can blame him, eh?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't grudge him the ability to spend his inheritance how he sees fit. However, I can't help but remark on the irresponsibility of allowing the world to think you're dead for seven years."

Crane really had no opinion either way on the matter, and so closed the paper and sat back in his seat, universal language for "this conversation is over." Instead, he contented himself with sitting as still as possible, while glancing down at the crossword puzzle on the back of the paper, still visible to him.

Shortly enough, Carmine stood and gestured for Crane to follow him. In a few short steps, they were in his office, the window at his back. And now to the business at hand.

About a week ago, Crane had made a now-routine appearance in court, to testify as to the mental state of a criminal. The man was one of dozens of Falcone's men who had managed to get himself caught, and who would soon be an inmate at Arkham Asylum. Crane would testify that Falcone's men were mentally unstable, "treat" them at Arkham, and then soon after would be pronounced "cured" and would return to a life of street crime. This was all part of the deal Crane and the League had with Falcone in exchange for bringing in the shipments of the powdered blue flower for Crane's toxin.

However, after this particular trial, he had been approached by an assistant D.A. who had been making some pretty troubling accusations. Finally, someone, it seemed, was on to him.

Crane began. "No more favors. Someone is sniffing around."

"Hey, I scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc. I'm bringing in the shipments."

Crane made a bewildered face, brow furrowing slightly and his eyes narrowing, his neck jutting out a bit. What did Falcone's bringing in the shipments have to do with anything? Was he telling Crane he himself should be doing something about the interloper exchange for the service? That was not part of the deal. "We are paying you for that," Crane said with disbelief.

"Maybe money isn't as interesting to me as favors."

Crane felt a rush of anger and frustration, and an itchy feeling on his skin. His clothes felt like they were coated with straw. Scarecrow was with him. _Typical gangster type. Why does it always have to be about "favors?"_

Jaw stiff, Crane took off his glasses and looked Falcone straight in the eyes. It was textbook body language, showing his resistance to Falcone's words. He looked at Falcone with hard, unsympathetic eyes.

"I am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr. Falcone. But you know who I'm working for, and when he gets here -"

"He- he's coming to Gotham?" Falcone stuttered his sentence. _Now we're getting somewhere._

"Yes, he is. And when he gets here, he's not going to want to hear that you have endangered our operation just to get your thugs out of a little jail time." Crane's voice had become dangerously cold. Falcone was making eye contact with him, just as intended. He held contact, not allowing the man to look away.

Finally he managed to break away from Dr. Crane's gaze. "Who's bothering you?" It's hard to shake a man like Falcone, but the mention of the imminent arrival of The League of Shadows in Gotham City had struck a note with the man.

"There's a girl at the DA's office." Rachel Dawes, assistant D.A. and unfathomable pest. When they had last encountered each other, after the trial, she had been more than forthright about her ideas. In fact, she had blatantly called him corrupt. Which, even though it may have been true, ground at him immeasurably.

He was doing everything he could, and everything he had been told to do by both The League and Falcone to make sure everything would run smoothly. If a lowly D.A.'s assistant could figure out what was going on, if they were that close to being exposed, well, it was by no fault of his. If it was up to him, he would be in the Asylum's basement, analyzing chemical compounds, not on the stand. Still, his pride made it impossible for him to shrug her words off.

"We'll buy her off," suggested Falcone.

"Not this one." She was too good for that. She clearly saw herself as some sort of hero, an unshakable pillar of righteousness in a corrupt justice system. She wanted to change the world. But evolution takes time, and she was little more than a cog in a fiercely turning machine. A cog that sticks out like that either gets crushed by the other wheels or jams the whole thing. She had to be dealt with.

"Ah. Idealist, eh? Well there's an answer to that too."

"I don't want to know."

"Yes you do."

There was a pause. Crane looked Falcone right in the eyes and gave him the slightest of smiles.

* * *

All my love again, m.


	5. Office Hours

I've been gone on vacation! But now I'm back, and getting ready for my final fall semester. Thank you to everyone who has read this far, and for all your kindess and reviews.

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Back at the Asylum, Crane strode quickly and purposefully through the halls. Up one, down another. Through the crisis and emergency wards, and the secure ward. Past the wing for less severe cases, and those who checked themselves in. The place was practically a maze.

The original building had been founded by Amadeus Arkham around the turn of the 19th century, after his family had been murdered by a brutal serial killer. The case had been the talk of the area many years ago, but had fallen out of public interest as time went by, and old Amadeus himself went insane within the halls of his hallowed institution. A small, somewhat tarnished gold plaque at the entrance to the building and a name on the wrought iron fences outside were the only indication that one man had dreamed up this place, and was ultimately responsible for it.

The Gothic architecture was ornate, even for the time it was constructed. Arkham Asylum was to be The Best, a beacon of psychology and psychiatric study. A place of healing. However, over time, the world became a more cynical place, and the attitudes towards the whole field changed. It was no longer a place of simple healing and study, but a place for medications and sessions, "treatments" and "therapy".

As a once optimistic population was broken by years and years of economic strain, war, and disease, and a growing sense of alienation due to technological advances, the asylum's walls could no longer hold the tired, ill, and unstable of Gotham City. So various bits and pieces had been added on to its elaborate facade over time. The building now had a look suggesting that it was just as schizophrenic as the patients tucked away from the world inside its walls.

As a serious Psychology student in Gotham in his youth, Crane knew all this, of course. Every detail of its history, from the madness of Amadeus Arkham to the original blueprints of the oldest buildings, which, coincidentally, had been extremely useful in looking for a safe place to conduct his most recent experiments.

As Crane neared his office, his secretary, Mina, looked up. She seemed to be attuned to the sound of his shoes on the tile floors. Every single time, no matter what speed he walked at or what shoes he was wearing, she knew when he was coming. He had hoped she would be away from her desk when he got back. He was in no mood to speak with her; he'd had his fill of imbeciles for the day.

And yet, there she sat.

"Hi, Dr. Crane!" Upbeat, as usual.

He gave her a curt nod and smile, and attempted to walk past her, but she was already standing, holding out a small stack of files.

"These need to be reviewed and signed by the end of the week! Oh, and also, I have this memo for you." She added a small pink slip to the stack of files in his hand.

Crane was barely listening though. Being around Mina made him generally furious.

She gave him a bright smile. She looked more out-of-breath and excited than usual as she tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. He continued to stare coldly at her. She eventually gave a sort of half-shrug and, still smiling, returned to her seat, putting pen in hand and scribbling out notes onto a yellow legal pad, referring to some of the files he had given her earlier.

He walked into his office and sat at his own desk. His jaw was tense from holding back general obscenities. As much as she just grated on his nerves, she was honestly not terrible at her job, and to fire her on the spot like that would only make him look heartless, something that his co-workers may have already suspected about him. No need to draw attention to himself. Now would be the worst possible time to stand out.

The first stack of files that he went through were weekly reports submitted to him for review by other doctors. They detailed sessions with their patients, and any progress or setbacks, as well as any medications, treatments, visits from family or friends, etc, that the patient received. They were mostly very standard, so he breezed through about five of them in an hour before putting the rest aside for later.

Strangely enough, doing paperwork somehow calmed him. The feel of the printed sheets, and the smell of the ink comforted him. They reminded him of his most trusted, lifelong companion: books. The infinite knowledge to be found in books, the life lessons in literature. Any possible life could be lived through the finely textured sheets housed lovingly between leather binding.

And yet there was still so much to learn, so much to know; much of it about us, the human race itself. All the things that make us who we are, that dictate why we do what we do. What is conscience or morality? Is it just a dressed up version of our survival instinct? What causes true joy? True despair? True fear? Things Jonathan had pondered since his childhood. If only he could discover the secrets of the mind, he would have final, complete power over the self-

_-And then over others' selves. Never again will we fear. But they will. We will torment them, steal their innocence before they can steal it from another. Take all the little things they think they are so dependent on and show them what real hardship is. They want refined? Unburden them from their notions of right and wrong, their "happy" and "sad" and "angry". To be enlightened is to be in poverty: a poverty of the spirit. A lacking of emotion. Fear is simple, fear is all._

Crane blinked slowly, the light hurting his eyes. Had he dozed off? Maybe for just a few minutes? He had no idea how long he had been out, or if he had really fallen asleep at all. He just felt very relaxed and centered, and took a moment to smile to himself at the irony of it. That which would make an ordinary man's heart race made his beat strongly and surely.

Looking at his desk, he noticed a pink corner peeking out from underneath the stack of files from earlier. He separated the ones he had already signed off on to hand to Mina later for disbursement back to their respective owners, and then pulled the little pink sheet out from under the rest.

A quick glance at it and he was already grinding his teeth.

"Dr. Crane, can we get dinner sometime? xoxo, Mina." Signed with a heart next to her name. And her phone number underneath.

His initial response was one of unbridled rage. How dare she? _Yeah, how dare she? _What did she even think she was doing?

She had attempted a flirtation with him many times, as he had noted to himself earlier in the day, but he had always resisted her advances. The crushed look in her face that split second after he told her that he found her lipstick color inappropriate for the office, the blush that spread across her cheeks as he berated her as the pen she handed him almost immediately leaked into his shirt pocket.

Little interactions like these fed his superiority complex almost as much as the fact that she was an attractive woman, and deep down, he still viewed himself with the sort of scorn that other, bigger boys had treated him with as a teenager. He enjoyed the self-denial of it.

However this was something he had not prepared himself for. Everybody had a breaking point, didn't they? Hers simply must be harder to find. _But all the more enjoyable to destroy. In the long run. _

He rubbed his inner eyes with his thumb and forefinger, displacing his glasses on his nose. He'd had enough. It was time to go home for the evening.

* * *

I only have one more chapter planned for this particular story, but I hope to write more sometime quite soon! I have some story ideas flowing, and one may or may not involve more of Mina. But it would be a crossover story because ~gasp~ Mina is actually from another series! +100 points for who guesses (I haven't been very detailed thus far, I admit. But you can see why.) Please continue to stick with me for one more chapter! m.


	6. Night

This is the final chapter! Thank you for bearing with me. "It's been a long day", so to speak. Please help me decide what type of Cranefic to write next, by viewing the poll I have set up on my profile! And now, here we go.

* * *

It was dark outside. Crane locked his office door behind him as he prepared to leave.

Mina was already gone, thank God. He stood there and looked at her desk for a moment. Finally, his lips pursed, he carelessly knocked over a mug on her desk filled with pens and pencils. _Ooops._ It was petty, he knew. But his usual methods of psychological torture– well, those not involving fear toxin – didn't seem to have any effect on her. He was frustrated, and not above acting childish when things weren't going his way. He knew himself well enough to recognize that.

One more trip down the tiled halls. Instead of walking directly to the lobby, though, he took the long way around. He was going to walk through the emptiest part of the asylum: the children's wing.

In the past, this wing was mostly for children suffering from conditions we might recognize today as early forms of Attention Deficit Disorder, although most of them were perfectly fine, if not somewhat rambunctious. Problem children could be shipped off to asylums and forgotten by their families for years at a time. Sometimes they came out more damaged than they had been when they arrived, if they came out at all.

Children were rarely admitted to Arkham anymore, as the kind of therapy employed here was deemed unfit for all but the most hardcore psychotics. There's a reason that it was called "Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane".

Its relative abandonment and location in the oldest building of the asylum made it ideal for Crane's entrance and exit to his secret laboratories. He could always just take the elevator down to the basement level and go from there, but there was too much of a chance someone might try to get on the elevator with him, and how could he explain away his trips to the lower levels when even maintenance didn't go down there unless they absolutely had to? No, better to have his own ways of getting in and out in an emergency.

He walked past a door, a room once housing patient 4-1-3 STRIDER, as the plaque next to the door read. Through the small window in the door, you could see a mattress lying on the floor in the corner, looking like a creature with its stomach ruptured, the way the springs and stuffing were bursting out. Dust was everywhere, and pages that looked like they had been ripped out of magazines littered the floor. He had looked at them all before; sometimes when he was feeling particularly irritated with his patients and fellow staff, Jonathan would sneak into this room and just lie down for a nap.

Some of the pages appeared to be from a coloring book, others were advertisements for new, must-have appliances like the microwave oven and washing machine, guaranteed to help any housewife. Others looked like they had been pulled from old Playboy magazines, spanning decades. He doubted those had belonged to the children housed here, although he couldn't entirely discredit it; he knew pornography magazines were commonly stashed away under the mattresses of pubescent boys. Looking at them had provided him with little stimulation, although he had to admit, the older the images were, the more intrigued he was with the women pictured. There was something about leaving things to the imagination, he supposed.

There was a large crack on one wall, and the paint was peeling away from it. If one were to walk into that room and dig their fingers into the crack, and pull as hard as they could, they would find the secret entrance to Crane's catacombs. He stood in front of the cell door still, taking it all in. He thought about entering, checking on the progress in the basement...but no. Tonight was a shipment night, and he was better off at home. He could not be anywhere that in any way might compromise his research, and if something went wrong at the docks, and anything that was discovered that might implicate him, better he be at home with an alibi of some sort.

That meant he would need an alibi though.

Well, it seemed he would be ordering some sort of takeout again. Something with a receipt, that would be timestamped and delivered, where he would have to look a man in they eye and hand him cash directly. He sighed. Jonathan hated takeout.

Looping back around to the asylum's lobby, on the way out he handed his ID badge back to the evening receptionist, who took it from him with barely a blink. Out the door, through the gates, and on to the monorail station.

Generally, people didn't use the monorail much at night, although they ran 24/7. Decent people were too afraid of muggings, of getting shot or raped at night in the dim shadows of the monorail stations, or under the yellow fluorescent lights that shook and rattled on the ceiling of the moving cars.

Jonathan, however, was not particularly afraid. He still carried a few pellets of fear toxin in his pocket, which he prodded and stroked absentmindedly throughout the trip. He was bored, and almost looking for a reason to use them. However, he wasn't interested in trying anything with the obviously homeless man who sat in the far corner, singing sadly to himself. He needed something that would give him a rush, the kind of thrill he'd felt earlier, but that man was already broken. Scarecrow couldn't touch him.

Crane exited at the appropriate stop and walked the short distance to his building. Once inside, he peeked at his mailbox and finding it empty, proceeded to the elevator, which he rode up to the 9th floor.

Unlocked his apartment door. Set his briefcase down by the coffee table in his living room. Walked into his kitchen and pulled a takeout menu out of a drawer. Now, did he feel like Asian fusion or pizza?

Sighing to himself again, he settled on pizza, and to decide, jabbed his finger at the menu. Meat lover's pizza it is, he thought to himself.

He placed the order, and moved to the living room while he waited. He had the luxury of living in one of the nicest apartments money (and mob connections) could buy in this, albeit run-down, area of town: two spacious bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room and kitchen (although one of the bedrooms he wasn't using; it was a makeshift office). He had a fireplace in the living room, wood floors in the kitchen and bathrooms, and one whole wall in his bedroom was just windows. More than comfort, this was excess. But he knew that he deserved it, and more.

Jonathan lit the fireplace, and seated himself in a soft leather armchair near both a bookcase and a window. He then proceeded to do what any bookish person does while waiting: read. He flipped open the current volume he was perusing, a biography of Carl Jung. He had read it many times before, and the pages were soft to the touch. After a chapter of that, he flipped through a few other books on body language and other learned behaviors, and finally pulled a small, brown leather volume off the shelf.

This particular book was smaller than all the others, about one hand high and two fingers wide. It had a small clasp that held it closed. The leather binding it appeared to have scratches, and although it seemed to be a newer book, the pages seemed just as worn as the old Jung biography. The top edge of the pages looked as if they had come into contact with some sort of liquid, and were slightly discolored. It was obviously a book that had seen a lot of use, a lot of thumbing through. He set it aside for later.

Crane was bored. He was SO bored. There was a shipment of his drugs coming in. There were inmates helping him spread poison to the whole city. The power of fear was in his hands. And yet the solitude did not make him happy. He was at his most gleeful when with another person: an inmate he shot with fear toxin, a patient as he calculated their diagnoses. Even Mina was someone to manipulate and silently judge.

He could not judge himself, though. There was nothing there to judge. He was flawless at his job, he was executing his plans alongside The League of Shadows quite nicely. He had as much as he currently wanted in material wealth, and the means to get even more in the long run. And yet.

He would never say he was lonely. He couldn't make the words form in his head, even if he wanted to. But he did find the choking feeling in his throat to be quite peculiar, and wondered if he was experiencing some kind of episode. He understood loneliness, it was a primal thing, and a great fear of many of his patients. But it was something that had become so inundated into him since childhood, such a great part of his identity, that he could no longer recognize it in himself. And so he attributed his dissatisfaction and discomfort to boredom, and restlessness.

Eventually, after what seemed like an agonizing wait, the pizza arrived, and Crane handed the young teen his cash, leaving an exact tip. He carried it in, put the receipt on the fridge with a magnet, and pulled out a hot slice. Without thinking, he ate, drinking tap water out of the sink when thirsty. The rest, he left out on the table if he wanted it later.

He returned to the chair in the living room, in front of the fireplace. He picked up the small book, and opened its pages. It was a dream journal. A gallery of nightmares and fears, places he'd been to in his sleep. He placed a pen between blank pages and the last entry he had made, and left it open on the table.

He needed to relax; but he needed something to assuage him, distract him. From a secret place in the bookshelf, Crane brought out a syringe with an almost-clear fluid inside. It was a bit of Crane's fear toxin, but in an injectable form. Why experiment with just inhalants?

As the fire flickered, leaving patterns of light and shadow across his face, Crane took his glasses off and set them aside. He pulled the sleeve of his suit jacket and shirt up, and poised the needle above his wrists. He let out a sigh of relief that was almost a grunt as the needle's tip pushed through his skin into his vein, and he slowly depressed the plunger, injecting the liquid directly into his bloodstream.

It was only moments until his vision started to blur, and the room began to swirl. The whole apartment felt hotter, but he was chilled. His skin itched again, and he sensed a presence behind him. He wanted to turn around, but he already knew what he would see. He was filled with terror and delight at the thought of the stitched-sack face he would see, the one he had modeled his own so carefully around.

Jonathan Crane sat in an empty room, trying to communicate with the only things he could truly understand. The visions of madness, the spectral phantoms of fear filled the room, surrounded him, but he was utterly alone.

He moved his lips silently in conversation, mouthed his laughter, whispered his name.

Scarecrow. Scarecrow.

* * *

Thanks again for reading this, my return to fanfiction! Please check out my poll if you liked any of what you read here, and I'd still love to get any reviews for this work that I can; there's always room for improvement! All of my love, m.


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